A Chance Encounter

One of my favorite New York events is the U.S. Open every September. It’s gorgeous out at Arthur Ashe Stadium, in Queens. And the most elite tennis players in the world come to compete for a Grand Slam title. The only thing I love more than playing tennis is watching really talented professional tennis players compete.

On September 11, 1999, I was in the stands on a hot Saturday afternoon, watching Andre Agassi play an epic five-set match against Yevgeny Kafelnikov in the men’s semifinal. Both players were on fire, and neither would cede a point without chasing down every lob or launching killer backhands down the line.

I was not just there to enjoy world-class tennis that day. I was there to try to steal Andre away from NBC. I had done a profile on him for GMA two months earlier—it was an extraordinary story. Once ranked number 1 in the world, he dropped all the way down to number 141, before fighting his way back up. If he won this tournament, he would win back his number 1 ranking. GMA wanted him live on our show Monday morning. My producers were hoping I might convince him to skip the Today show live interview that had been scheduled and do ours instead.

Andre beat Kafelnikov—he was on his way to the finals. I waited for him in the USTA office. There were a handful of other people also there, waiting. Andre was doing press in the other room; this was taking a long time. I was starting to feel uncomfortable. I should just leave, I thought. There is no way he is going to cancel Today.

There were two men sitting on the couch, talking. One of Andre’s team walked in and gave them each a big hug. “Man, you were amazing last night! You really put Andre in the right head space. It meant so much to him.”

Despite my discomfort, I was curious. Who were these guys? What did they do last night?

Then, just as I was about to gather my purse and leave a note with Andre’s manager, one of the men turned to me. “Are you here to do a story on Andre?”

“No.” I shook my head. “I already did one. I am just here to congratulate him, and invite him onto our show.” I couldn’t help myself, I had to ask. “What did you do for him last night?”

“We put on a private concert for him.”

“How cool! What did you play?”

“A few songs off one of my records.”

I was intrigued. “What is your name?”

“Marc Cohn.”

I hesitated. His friend jumped in.

“You probably know him from his first hit, ‘Walking in Memphis.’”

“Oh yes…” I said. “But I actually preferred your second album, The Rainy Season. It’s brilliant.” It had been one of my favorite CDs six years earlier. I had played it over and over, and still knew almost every lyric by heart. I especially loved the song “Medicine Man.” It was haunting, his voice husky.

At that moment, Andre emerged from the locker room, elated with his hard-won victory. We all exchanged hugs and talked for a while. Marc was planning to come back to watch the finals on Sunday. Andre turned to me, “Why don’t you come? I will give you one of my seats.”

I was thrilled to be invited, happy to say yes. Marc and I made plans to go to the final the next day together, where we watched Andre win the championship and reclaim his ranking at the top of the tennis world.

The next day, Monday, Marc left a message on my voice mail, inviting me to dinner because he would like to discuss a story idea. I burst out laughing. That has got to be the most transparent line ever used on a journalist. I knew exactly what he was doing—he was asking me out on a date.

We made arrangements to go to dinner Wednesday night to a fantastic Italian restaurant on the Upper East Side. But when I woke up that morning, I didn’t think we’d make it. A vicious storm was rolling toward the city, with torrential rains and severe flooding on the way. The streets crossing Central Park were closed because of high water. The mayor was on TV warning New Yorkers to stay home that night. In all my time living in this city, I cannot remember another time when Manhattan has shut down for a thunderstorm.

Marc and I were undeterred. He picked me up, we found a cab, and somehow we made our way through the lashing rain to Scalinatella. My friends Dana, Michelle, and Lori and I had come here often. I knew the menu by heart. The place was always packed, with people waiting on the stairs for a precious table. Not this night. The restaurant was nearly empty. Marc and I had our pick of cozy tables. It was a wonderful night. As the wind howled outside, we told each other about our lives. I learned how he fell in love with music, that as a boy he loved the same song I did, “Angel of the Morning,” by Merrilee Rush. He told me how he was writing music by the time he was twelve, and playing in bands in his teens. He told me about the night he won a Grammy for Best New Artist. He told me about his divorce, and his two young children, and how painful that was. And I told him everything about me… everything except the anxiety. But I would eventually tell him, and only him, about how much I struggled with it.

We sipped wine and shared pasta and nibbled on fish, marveling at the stormy weather that September night. We laughed. “Could it be an omen?” Could it?

After that night, our first date, I never went out with anyone else. I never kissed anyone else. For me, there was just Marc.